he got as near to saying "Whew!" as any live man ever has. He
had jolly nearly put his foot in it! He wouldn't for millions let that
little girl suspect that really artistic people--his own set--did not
think so much of Brett's work as Brett did himself. What a lumbering
idiot he had been! The fact was, he had thought she meant to get that
writing of hers back and he had wanted to distract her mind. In that,
anyhow, he had succeeded.

On the way back, he could not resist dipping into the book as he walked.

He skimmed a page and chuckled Fiction? He recognised himself already!

CHAPTER XVI

A MATTER OF SALES

Long after Geoffrey Alison had gone, Helena sat motionless at her desk,
biting a pen-holder; looking out into the garden and thinking.

She was not thinking, as he would have imagined, about her manuscript.
She was thinking about Hubert's work.

In one sense she had no great opinion of Geoffrey Alison, although she
liked to have him as her friend. She did not respect him, did not
think him manly, would never be swayed by his estimate of her: he was
an odd, amusing, clever, little thing and she was never altogether sure
when he was serious. But in another way she thought more of his words
than even she had ever admitted to herself. Hubert had never taken her
development as serious at all; had made it clear he thought her stupid,
as he said once, "to burden her dear little head with brains, when she
was so original already"; so that it had been Mr. Alison (who must be
really very kind, at any rate) that had initiated her into the
thrilling mysteries of Art. He had taken her round galleries, to
lectures; told her this was bad or that good, then tried to show her
why; and though they argued nowadays, her basic views were his: she
judged things by the touchstone he had given her. What then more
natural than that she should value his ideas on Art?

And now--now he had told her (oh, without meaning it, she knew, but
that made it no better)--told her that Hubert's novels were not thought
artistic really, they were good stories but no more, and not in the
same class as vague others which sold always badly. She had been so
proud of them, until _Was It Worth While?_ appeared; and now it seemed
that all the others had belonged to a class of no merit, too. They
were good of their sort--like a caricature...! Hubert had always
spoken with such scorn of novels which were "popular": and now she had
hea